


Endless Moments 1: Destiny

by FayJay



Series: Endless Moments [1]
Category: Firefly, The Sandman
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-10
Updated: 2009-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which an Alliance Operative comes to an unwelcome realisation about his chosen profession</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endless Moments 1: Destiny

He had a different name, then. It wasn't the name his mother had given him, but she was long gone, and it was the name that the government recognised. His masters. He had been a perfect Operative, and prided himself on that perfection. Lethal, brilliant, persuasive – he was an ideal tool. He could out-think, out-talk, out-maneuver, out-shoot anyone, everyone, and he was utterly devoted. He had lost his faith in other people, had lost his faith in God, but his faith in civilization was unshakable. His faith in this work, in the government, in the future of the human race – that was a flame that burned in the darkness of his heart, that was the reason for every betrayal, every compromise, every ruthless and terrible deed he committed. Because he was building a better universe. _They_ were building a better universe. And if he mortgaged his own soul in the process, and if he slit the throats of good men, shot brave women in the back, left caterwauling babies sobbing in the ruins in the knowledge that they would die of exposure or be eaten by wild dogs – well, he had a dirty, needful job. He was making himself into a sacrifice, doing the unthinkable, being the unforgivable, all to forward the course of human history.

He had forged himself into the perfect weapon, and he thought that was what he would always be until one quiet, terrible day when he betrayed a good man whose trust he had won through months of careful lies, and, afterwards, watched his labours come to glittering, terrible fruition over Serenity Valley – and a question grew within his heart.

“Yes.”

He was circling around the man before the sound had finished forming in the air, gun pointing unerringly into the shadows that hid the stranger's face and his finger poised to deliver death.

“And whence, friend, came you?” His voice was level and deadly, his eyes narrowed as he took in the strange, monastic robes and the heavy volume clutched in the stranger's hands. The chain that dangled from the book.

“Here,” said the tall man, and his voice was dusty as a lost library, dispassionate and inhuman as any computer. “And, yes. You have changed the course of history this day. You have won the war and changed the universe. The Alliance will rule uncontested for decades because of this day's work. Because of you. Without you, the battle of Serenity would have been lost.”

He believed it. It should have felt like victory, like validation. Instead it felt like a bullet to the heart.

“Nothing will change,” he said, suddenly understanding, suddenly feeling something shattering within him.

“Everything changes – and nothing does,” agreed the man with the book. “All you have is your own life, in which to love, and forgive, and betray, and despise. That is all anyone ever has, no matter the colour of their gloves or their coats, or the finery of their City Halls. You have not changed what lies in the hearts of men. That is outside your control.”

He bowed his head, understanding, then, the full weight of the crimes he had committed against his fellows in this lifetime.

“I was wrong,” he said, paralysed by the horror of it, thinking back to the look in the eyes of a man who had believed him a friend. Thinking back to the promise he made his mother before she died. “It is not enough. This is not justice.”

The gun slipped from nerveless fingers, and that was a piece of carelessness he could never have committed before. By some miracle, it did not fire. As it clattered to the ground it took with it his name, his identity, his faith, and his future, and he turned his back on the cowled figure and on the great deeds he had accomplished this bright and dreadful day.

“Yes,” said the stranger behind him, but he was no longer interested in who, or what, the robed figure might be. He was only interested in his own future.

“Book,” he said to himself, turning the word over on his tongue as he trod across the dusty ground, hearing explosions and screams still echo in the distance. “I would be something still and quiet, with wisdom in my heart.” And as his commanders celebrated their victory with shouts and cheers and liquor he walked towards a different destiny, where, perhaps, he might learn something of healing, and the secrets of nurturing strawberries and men's souls.


End file.
